


Treatment B

by TinaMuvorik



Category: Tintin (Comics), Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Implied/Referenced Torture, Interrogation, Kidnapping, Mystery, Psychological Torture, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 19:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17086529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinaMuvorik/pseuds/TinaMuvorik
Summary: Description: after being kidnapped by Dr Müller, Tintin is interrogated at Rosewood psychiatric hospital.{Canon divergence/expansion: The Black Island, ties to The Blue Lotus}





	Treatment B

Getting into the grounds of the mansion had been easy. Too easy. He chided himself for not keeping an eye out for traps sooner, and now it was too late.

Cold metal teeth were clamped shut around Tintin's leg, and sharp beads of crimson shone against his pale skin; which grew ever-whiter by the second. He stumbled forwards before he could stop himself, which only sunk the blades deeper into his calf as they tore at bare flesh. He cried out, left foot grinding into the gravel path in an attempt to steady himself, but he collapsed under the weight of this fresh injury.

He took a gulp of the frozen Scottish air, which seemed instantly more hostile than it had only moments before.

Focus, Tintin, he told himself, pushing himself up on his haunches, even as his legs began shuddering violently under the strain.

Reaching for his foot almost automatically, he tried to pry open the jaws of the metal beast, but they threatened to cut his fingers, too. Panic mounting, he closed his eyes so as not to bear witness to his continued mutilation, and tugged the mechanism wider for one brief, triumphant moment. Crouched as he was, he wasn't in a position to free his leg, and his fingertips, now slick with blood, released the trap unthinkingly. It snapped shut back around his ankle, and he whimpered in pain, a noise that sounded unfamiliar from his own lips.

The sentiment was echoed by Snowy, who circled around him restlessly, yipping with concern.

It dawned on him that if he couldn't get free, he might really be in trouble, but he was spent, unable to focus on anything but the overwhelming pain. Usually, he might have been strong enough to open the trap without hurting himself further, but his focus was gone, marred by a haze of agony. He exhaled slowly, and his mind began to hone in on the sounds of crunching gravel.

Footsteps.

Part of him wanted to evade capture, but he knew that whoever was coming could release him from the trap; and so he willed them forwards silently, taking shallow breaths, his body racked with pain.

Snow's yips turned into a defensive growl, and he heard a grisly collision as the little dog leapt at someone. There was a loud curse, and the sound of gunshots. Tintin wheeled round wildly, his heart leaping higher in his chest, as he screamed "NO!"

There was another muttered curse, and Tintin saw the man aiming blindly for the dog, each shot missing by a mile. His heart fluttered with relief to see that Snowy had the sense to run away, darting between the trees with a yelp.

The bald headed man seemed to consider chasing the dog, then remembered Tintin, and turned on his heel swiftly. Tintin recognised him instantly: Dr Müller.

He looked unusually formidable. Perhaps it was because he'd tried to kill Snowy, but the short man didn't look as harmless as he had when Tintin first met him. He waved the gun at Tintin, with a somewhat gleeful look in his eyes at having discovered Tintin at his estate.

"Herr Tintin," his lips twisted into an amused smile as he towered over him. "So good to see you." His jet black moustache perched precariously on a thin sneer, and bristled slightly every time he talked.

Tintin clenched his jaw, barely managing to stay conscious, and didn't reply. He was faintly aware of how watery his eyes were, blinking the tears away as he stared up at the doctor.

His eyes flicked lazily to the trap closed around Tintin's ankle, almost as if he hadn't known it was there. His next words were dripped in a venomous false sympathy, and he crouched down to his level leisurely.

"Ah... But did you not see the release catch, Tintin?" Müller gloated, basking in Tintin's carelessness.

  "Please-" Tintin yelped, as his back gave a spasm of pain. He began to worry that the trap's strong maw would cut his leg clean off.

Müller laughed, and reached for an unseen switch nestled somewhere in the grass. The trap released instantly, and sprung apart, now drenched in the same deep red that faintly stained the surrounding green with little flecks. Müller tutted.

"Up," he commanded, wasting no time in jumping to his feet, pointing the gun at Tintin again.

With tremendous effort, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing as he put weight on the shredded leg. Müller paid it no heed, gesturing Tintin to move with his gun hand.

He fixed his gaze warily on Müller's gun, and objected to having it trained on him.

"I can't run," he pointed out through gritted teeth, limping ahead of Müller as directed. Every step made him grimace.

"Gut," Müller smirked, watching Tintin struggle without a hint of empathy. He seemed content to take his time, even while Tintin struggled forwards on shaking limbs, and he ushered him down the gravel path towards the house.

~

"Sit," Müller gestured to a dark green sofa.

It wasn't a request, and Tintin didn't have much choice. His wound was now doubly agitated from walking unaided, and he worried he was about to pass out. He shuffled over to it in exhaustion, seating himself on the edge of it and watching the doctor warily.

Müller eyed Tintin's leg.

"I trust that leg is as bad as it looks?" He asked. 

A strange question, but Tintin nodded. "Worse."

"Hmm," Müller pondered, standing up suddenly. "Then you won't go anywhere," he reasoned, as he left the room briefly.

When he returned, he carried a medical kit. Wordlessly, he drew up a nearby ottoman, and sat before Tintin. He met his eyes, almost challengingly, and Tintin reluctantly allowed him to inspect his leg. He rolled his trousers up with undue force, and Tintin sucked his breath in sharply, clenching his hands together to prevent himself from crying out.

With cold, expert hands, he began attending to the gash on Tintin's leg, dabbing on a foul-smelling liquid that stung painfully.

"So, you're a medical doctor," Tintin observed, voice quivering slightly as Müller cleaned the wound.

"You would think," Müller remarked strangely.

Tintin began to take note of the items in the living room, trying to build a better picture of the operation that Müller was running here.

"Yet you're involved with smuggling," he accused. "Why? Is it the money?" It was a wild guess, but he thought he saw a shadow cross Müller's face as he began to swaddle his leg with a bandage.

"Nice try," Müller's expression smoothed itself back into a neutral position, "But you will find I'm quite immune to any line of questioning." He gave the first pass of the fabric a particularly malicious tug, a warning not to pry further. 

"Why help me?" Tintin gasped, his leg giving an involuntary twitch of protest.

Müller held him still as he continued to work the bandage round. "I don't want you bleeding out on my carpet," he said evasively.

"But you tried to kill me earlier," Tintin recalled. "What changed?"

Müller tied the end of the bandage with much deliberation. He gave Tintin a menacing smile. "Your friends from Interpol may be complete idiots, but once they realise they're on a false trail, I can't afford to have your body on my hands."

"They're not idiots," Tintin said, mainly out of a sense of duty.

"No?" Müller closed the medical box with a slam, and stood up suddenly. "Regardless, you may soon wish you had jumped when you had the chance."

He gave Tintin a warning glance, and left the room. He considered standing, to investigate the room more closely, but the doctor returned soon enough. He was carrying a glass of water.

"Drink," he offered the glass to Tintin, who shook his head.

"I'm not thirsty," he lied. The liquid was certainly drugged.

"Well, when you are..." The doctor trailed off, and set the glass down on the table beside Tintin before moving over to his desk.

They stared at each other for a moment. Tintin's leg throbbed under the bandages, and he placed a hand over his wound soothingly.

There was a mechanical whirring sound as Müller inputted a number into his rotary phone, and he cast a sly look over at Tintin as he did so.

"Hello? Is that Rosewood mental hospital? It's doctor Müller here..." He wound the cord of the phone around his fingers absently, as he waited for someone on the other end of the line. Whoever it was, their presence made his voice change drastically, and Müller hissed into the mouthpiece with excitement. "I have a patient for you here... No, he's not mad. Not yet."

Tintin's eyes darted to the doorway on their left, as he began to calculate plans for an escape. It would be difficult, with his leg, but not impossible.

"I recommend Treatment B," Müller confided, now watching Tintin with an unnerving hunger. "Yes. See you soon."

Tintin shifted some weight onto his injured foot experimentally. He had to admit, a small part of him was intrigued by the exchange. This was a new lead, that he might quite like to have looked into, but he couldn't afford to be on the receiving end of it. No, if he was to find out what was entailed by "Treatment B", he was going to have to finish the trail of whatever conspiracy had first dragged him here. They were connected, somehow. Besides; he was already too vulnerable to deliberately put himself in any more danger.

So, he had to get out.

Müller began attending to paperwork, and Tintin sat patiently, waiting for him to leave the room. It occurred to him that Müller might not be intending to. What was it he'd said?

'See you soon.'

Soon.

He wondered... Was someone going to come to the estate, or was Müller going to attempt to transport Tintin himself? The latter would be preferable, as Tintin was already well-aquainted with Müller's weakness- he was a lousy shot.

His body jolted unexpectedly, and he gave a start. He hadn't realised he was falling asleep. He was doing it now, drifting off, his lids unnaturally heavy, and he shook his head forcefully to snap himself out of it. It felt like... But no- he glanced at the glass of water, left untouched on the table- that wasn't it. He noticed Müller watching him. He tried to stand, but fell back, under the heavy smog of exhaustion.

"The... Antiseptic..." Tintin realised, and Müller nodded.

"Just enough to make a man drowsy," he gloated, "And you are not a man. You are a boy."

Tintin closed his eyes for a moment. He attempted to think of a retort, but his head was swiftly becoming more and more like cotton. He groaned.

He faintly registered the doorbell ringing, and heavy footfalls through the wooden hall. 

  *This is a good time to run*, he thought blearily, his thoughts becoming less lucid by the moment.

Müller reentered the room, guiding a tall man, and he made a snide remark in a low voice. The man laughed.

Still fighting to stay awake, Tintin stared at the newcomer... Or was it... Newcomers?

A dual image in white stood before him, and he realised duly that he had double vision. He fought to stay awake, his mind still clinging desperately to vague ideas of escape, but he couldn't move his legs. Head spinning, the last thing he saw was the sight of the two doctors standing over him, a needle in hand and a satisfied look on their face.

  Oh, Tintin thought.

  He didn't have time to struggle.

**1**

"He must have come this way, Thomson."

"Indeed, Thompson."

The two detectives ambled down the road with all the haste of a funeral procession. The last person they had spoken to was an angry landlord, who had become only fractionally less angry upon realising that they were English too. He grunted something about the uptick in foreigners around these woods, and they asked him what he meant.

"First there was that pilot," he recalled, "Then that French boy."

After correcting him, in unison (*"Belgian, actually!"*) they learned that Tintin had set off along the main road, and, without any other leads, they followed it.

Thompson appreciated being back in England, on a warm, sunny day like this, but Thomson insisted he missed the rain.

They began to pass a long wall, which lead to a large mansion. As they passed the gate, a bark attracted their attention.

Assuming it was a guard dog, Thompson didn't look too closely, but Thomson- always the more observant of the two, stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes drawn to the undergrowth by a streak of white. Realising his partner was not by his side, Thompson halted promptly.

"What's the hold up?" He said, moving back towards him.

He gestured beyond the gate, where a familiar-looking dog raced towards them, yelping frantically. 

"Snowy!" They exclaimed in unison. He clearly recognised the detectives, and wagged his tail a little- but something was wrong.

Although Snowy was small enough to slip through the bars of the gate, he refused to do so, instead opting to growl at the detectives from the other side.

"Ah, Tintin must be in there!" Thompson said, wasting no time in pressing the buzzer on the side of the wall.

"Wait-!"

"What?" Thompson frowned. "We have to be let in," he said simply.

Thomson sighed. "I was hoping to be a little more discreet than that."

As soon as they rang the buzzer, Snowy dashed back into the undergrowth again. Whoever lived in this estate must have had him spooked- which was odd, as Snowy was usually never scared for anything.

Someone was striding out of the house towards them, and Thomson thought he recognised him from somewhere; but he couldn't quite place it. Beside him, Thompson seemed quite at ease, watching the figure approach with a determined calmness. Thomson, though, found himself strangely on-edge; the detective's instincts were tingling; there was definitely something amiss here.

The man seemed irritated when he reached the gate, and his eyes flashed with something fiery, which was quickly smothered. He tried to place it. Was it rage? Recognition? If the man had recognised the detectives too, then they had definitely met before- and the fact that he was not upfront about it only made Thomson more suspicious.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said, in a thick German accent. He seemed unusually frosty, but perhaps this was the normal behavior of an angry landowner who was visited by two strangers. Still, he seemed subdued. Thomson wondered if he knew they were detectives, and was therefore holding his tongue- but the pair were supposed to be somewhat discreet, even if they didn't often manage to remain undercover. The only reason the man would know they were detectives was if he had met them before... But how to prove it?

Wordlessly, he tried to silently communicate to Thompson the need for delicacy, but the other detective only grinned and nodded, turning straight back to the man behind the gate and taking it as an opportunity to take the lead.

"Hello! We're looking for a man called Tintin. We have reason to believe he's on your grounds," Thompson smiled good-naturedly, a smile that wasn't returned by the man behind the gate.

"'Reason to believe'?" the man asked, doing a convincing enough impression of a baffled member of public. It seemed good enough to fool his colleague. Before he could stop him, Thompson had pulled out his identification badge, smiling at Müller.

Thomson tried to hide his frustration with a careful smile, also showing the man his identification. He suspected he had been too quiet, and prepared to play up the usual pre-rehearsed double act.

"We're detectives Thomson-" he began.

"And Thompson!" His partner finished, beaming at the novelty of their shared codenames. A new tactic of Scotland yard was to hide in plain sight, and a mask of carefully planned idiocy couldn't hurt either. Of course, in Thompson's case, it was entirely possible he wasn't always acting.

Müller put on a good show of being apologetic, suddenly all smiles, subservient and helpful. The gate was open in no time, and he began talking to Thompson animatedly, his demeanor certainly entirely different from what it had been earlier.

Thomson was still trying to place him as the man stated his name. "I am Doctor Müller," he purred, and an image of a hunched man, different demeanour- but same beard- flashed through his mind. His heart sank. Oh, Tintin. What have you got yourself into this time?

He checked the man's face, again: yes, it was definitely the man from the train. He was quite the actor, but it wasn't enough to fool Thomson. "You see, our friend's dog is in your estate," he said, his eyes darting to the bushes where he'd last seen Snowy.

"Really? What does he look like?" Müller asked, neutrally.

"The wire fox terrier," Thompson provided, yet again before Thomson could interject.

"Why, that's my guard dog," he covered smoothly, barely skipping a beat as he told the lie.

"Ah. Our mistake," Thompson nodded. His leg twitched, as if to walk away, but Thomson was determined not to let this go.

"I'd quite like to run a sweep of the grounds, if you don't mind." He gave Müller a fake smile, clumsily trying to maintain his aloofness even while asserting his authority.

"Of course- where are my manners?" Müller asked, giving Thomson what could be interpreted as a challenging look. "Might I invite you inside for some tea, gentlemen?"

"That would be most welcome," Thompson nodded enthusiastically.

"...Very well," Thomson nodded, hiding his reluctance. It would be far easier to waylay Müller's suspicions before continuing their investigation, even if it meant delaying themselves a little. As long as Tintin wasn't in any immediate danger, he was sure they could afford the time loss.

"We can't stop long, though; this is a very urgent investigation."

Müller gave him a look that was thoroughly undecipherable. "Oh, I'm sure," he smiled, leading them into the grand entryway of the house.

Thomson glanced at the sky before he stepped inside. The sun was beginning to set.

**2**

Bright, sharp light.

Tintin's eyes fluttered open, and he tried to turn his head away. He couldn't. He strained, and felt leather straps pinning his forehead down. His breath caught in his throat, and he searched around with his eyes as much as he could, but all he could see was the harsh ring of light that was focused on him.

He thrashed around as much as he could, swiftly learning that more restraints held down his limbs. He was lying on a hard bed, spread-eagled and vulnerable, and more straps snaked across his chest, waist and thighs, holding him in place tightly. The bed was angled so he was almost upright, tilted diagonally downwards. He squirmed uncomfortably, focusing his efforts on his wrists. If only he could free his hands, he could-

"You're awake," a voice crooned, and he froze instantly.

His head automatically jerked in the direction of the unseen voice, and he heard the man tutting softly.

"Don't hurt yourself," he said, almost tenderly, as he ran his fingers through Tintin's hair.

Tintin's voice cracked terribly as he spoke. "I can't see."

There was a pause, followed by a faint click as his captor turned off the spotlight. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they did, Tintin made out the familiar outline of the man from Müller's house.

"You!" He exclaimed weakly, still fighting against the straps that held him.

"Me," the man smiled widely, showing cracked and yellowed teeth. His skin seemed to have an unnatural sheen, and his eyes looked almost glassy. "I am Doctor Gaviel," he explained, his hands reaching for Tintin's face.

Tintin flinched away, wincing as the taut leather caught him roughly. Still the man continued to touch his face. "What are you doing?" He asked, trying to keep his voice steady as he fixed his eyes on Gaviel's. His irises were filled with flecks of murky green, and he reminded Tintin of something he couldn't quite place.

Gaviel didn't answer him, his own wandering hands serving as the perfect distraction while Tintin surreptitiously tested the strength of his restraints. They were secured too tightly around his wrist for him to slide out of them, so he would have to try forcing his way out. It would be difficult, but he was determined not to spend a moment here longer than necessary.

Gaviel sighed to himself, his fingers coveting Tintin's cheekbones softly. "Ah, Mister Tintin, it is going to be a shame to break you."

Unable to move away any further, he cast his gaze along Gaviel's slender arm. He was wearing a golden wrist watch, just visible above the sleeve, and Tintin's breath fell heavily upon it.

"I'll ask you the same thing I asked Müller. Why not just kill me?" Tintin was stalling, but it was a valid question.

Gaviel grinned down at him, baring his pointed teeth widely. "He tried to have you disposed of at least twice, did he not?"

Tintin nodded hesitantly. His skin felt cold everywhere Gaviel touched, and he was struck by the roughness of his skin, calloused and worn at the fingertips.

The doctor eyed Tintin sideways. "Then, it seems, for someone as meddlesome as yourself, death is too flimsy a cage."

There was no time to prepare himself, no warning- Tintin gasped, as Gaviel stuck him in the arm with a needle, unseen throughout their conversation. A faint bleat of protest escaped his lips, and Gaviel smoothed his hair down slowly, ignoring Tintin's continued dissent.

The doctor withdrew, and belatedly, he realised what he reminded him of. Sallow skin fell away from his face in folds, eyes hollowed out and teeth spread widely: he resembled the perfect predator.

"The- the Gaviel," he grunted, "It's a type of crocodile, isn't it-?"

The doctor smiled, a strange sort of pride burning in his eyes. "So I've been told. It's a coincidence I'm rather fond of."

Tintin's heart pounded, and he suspected there was more going on than simply fear. "The needle. What was in it?" He asked, almost conversationally.

"Oh," the doctor set the empty needle down on a nearby metal table, "Just something to wake you up."

Tintin exhaled slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Gaviel steadily filling a second needle with a different liquid, but, restrained as he was, he couldn't get a better look at it. Everything, from the heavy straps that cut into his skin, to his throbbing pulse, beating with a greater intensity, came into a sharper focus. His eyes met Gaviel's, and his eyes asked a question he couldn't quite choke out.

"It's not your imagination. It helps you feel more... Acutely," the doctor said, focusing on the second syringe in his hands.

"Helps?" Tintin struggled.

"Stay still," Gaviel muttered, taking hold of his arm roughly and gripping him too tight.

He winced.

"What do you know of Müller's operation?" Gaviel asked, needle poised just above the skin.

Tintin exhaled softly. "What do you care? You're going to kill me anyway."

Gaviel tutted. "Not kill you, Tintin. That would be a waste," he added, almost to himself.

"Then what-?"

"No," Gaviel repeated, "Tell me about Müller."

"What?" Tintin asked, "I-"

The blow came swiftly, a solid strike diagonally across his face. His cheek smarted.

He tensed, legs fizzing with unused adrenaline, and the doctor raised his hand again. The breath left Tintin's body, and he inhaled sharply. There was silence for a moment, and Tintin was startled to realise that the violent thrumming he could hear was the sound of his own heart.

Gaviel had lashed out at him out of impatience, and anger dominated his face entirely. When he spoke, it was laced with barely tamed fury, and he couldn't fathom what had made him snap.

"Tell me how you found Müller," Gaviel hissed.

Tintin had allowed those cold features to deceive him. What he had initially mistaken for laziness- the same still, calculated overconfidence that kept crocodiles lying in wait, disguised lifelessly until their prey stumbled into their trap, turned out to be nothing more than well-disguised rage, bubbling beneath the surface. He may share a name with a crocodile, but the doctor was every bit as warm-blooded as any mammal. And that- that, Tintin knew how to deal with.

"I didn't find Müller," Tintin stated. "You must not have been properly filled in."

Gaviel became very still. "He told me enough."

"Instructed, you mean," Tintin taunted. "I heard the phonecall: 'Treatment B'. Is that it-?" He asked, nodding to the syringe.

The doctor laughed. "This? No. This will only *give* you nightmares, it won't make them... Your reality. Ah-" he cut Tintin off before he could respond, "Hush. I'm going to be asking the questions," he said, and he stroked his hands along Tintin's arm again.

"There's nothing to ask," Tintin said, as the doctor stared at him almost possessively.

"Ah, I think there is," he said. "You're mine to do with as I wish, and I happen to be eager to find out how such a delicious specimen landed in my lap."

"So, you get some kind of kick out of it, is that it?" Tintin wondered aloud. He was staring at the ceiling as he did so, and he didn't notice Gaviel's movement's at first. When there was no answer, he looked over at him, as he picked over something on the table before him. The contents of his pockets had been turned out onto a metal tray, and the doctor was reading his small notebook with interest. Enclosed between two pages was the small slip of paper Tintin had sellotaped back together: *'34, 35, three red lights, Dr Müller'*. Gaviel eyed him with renewed interest.

"You're a journalist?" He asked, eyes gleaming.

Tintin shook his head as much as the restraints would allow. "A reporter."

"Bah. An undercover investigator," Gaviel flicked through the pages some more, his eyes scanning Tintin's notes abruptly. "You seem to know a lot more than you're making out," he observed.

"It was only speculation," Tintin murmured, his eyes lingering for a moment on the needle's tip.

There was a pause. Gaviel pressed a cotton bud against Tintin's arm, a syringe poised perfectly against unbroken skin, and he leaned in close.

"Oh, Tintin," he whispered in his ear, his breath raising the hair on the back of his neck.

"You're going to have to do better than that."

**3**

Thomson was becoming increasingly wary of Müller's act. The man had ushered them inside, offering them tea and niceties, which he hurriedly declined. As they were getting settled in the living room, he excused himself with the lie of needing the bathroom.

He considered heading upstairs; he could check the rooms surreptitiously and claim he had got lost if he was discovered, but something lead him outside instead. Perhaps it was the urgency with which Snowy had yelped at him earlier, but he found himself drawn back to the bushes near the front gate, searching for the little dog. Alas, he didn't appear.

"Snowy," he whispered, his eyes scanning the undergrowth-

Frantic borking charged at him, and almost ran him down. Without wasting another moment, Snowy leapt forwards through the grass, running determinedly to a patch in the centre of Müller's lawn, and stopped fight next to it, growling.

Dried blood, dark brown, and camoflaged against the grass, but unmistakable.

Thomson frowned. He crouched down to get a better look at it, and in doing so, spotted the glint of metal nestled in amongst the grass, a circlet of sharp teeth primed and waiting unseen. It was well-hidden, so much so that the detective had barely noticed it- and if he hadn't, it was more than likely that Tintin hadn't, either. He glanced again at the blood, a tight, anxious feeling gripping his stomach.

"Tintin..." He exhaled softly, temporarily allowing his worry for the boy to overtake his thoughts. He pushed it away, focusing on what he knew best: the law.

These man-traps were illegal, and if Müller was willing to litter his estate with these, who knew what else he was involved in?

He stood. One thing was clear: the man was dangerous. It was time to confront him.

**4**

Tintin was burning up, certain he was going to die. In between shaky breaths and barely controlled sobs, he could see the distant silhouette of Gaviel as he lingered over him.

He had turned the light back on, and Tintin felt raw and exposed, overanalyzed by a greedy host. The warmth from the lamp was surprisingly powerful, but worse than that was the heat from his own body, an artificial fever running off the fumes of drugs sedatives. Still, he sensed a brief reprise- perhaps the doctor was becoming bored of him- and so he inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself.

He had been tortured before, but those were the unpracticed blows of angry thugs, not the expert plying of a professional. It hadn't hurt as much, although, even if it had, Tintin suspected there was no way to prepare himself for this experience. There was something incomparably simple about being punched- one simply had to lie there and take it- but with an interrogator like Gaviel, one had to brace themselves each time, anticipating the sting then the cold rush of fluid, each one seemingly calculated to horrify its victim.

No, Tintin would rather be beaten. In fact, Gaviel relied so heavily on the implements of a surgeon that it made Tintin almost long for it. He had never liked needles, and perhaps the doctor sensed that, introducing various serums into Tintin's bloodstream that must surely had resulted in a dangerous cocktail of drugs. He shuddered, though whether from terror or injury, he did not know.

Aside from when Gaviel had slapped him, he hadn't laid a hand on him. Instead, he observed Tintin, occasionally whispering lines of false encouragement, prodding and testing him like an experiment as he used him as a pincushion. Tintin had struggled at first, until the doctor had threatened to illustrate all the ways in which a needle could catch on a tensed muscle, because- "I assure you, my dear Tintin, you would not like the fray."

He couldn't tell if he was exaggerating, but nevertheless, he lay still after that, even when his body began to tremble under the weight of his own inaction, disgusted at his compliancy in this charade. The memories were indistinct, jumbled, but he remembered screaming more than he would like to admit. Gaviel had smiled at that, running his hands through Tintin's hair as he leaned over him, seemingly no longer concerned with demanding an answer, until he asked Tintin if he'd had enough. Would he like him to stop? Had the reckless reporter run out of stamina?

"Hnnh...?" Tintin could barely keep his eyes open, yet he was also allowed no room to sleep, stuck in a limbo between conscious and unconsciousness. His head was filled with a heavy haze of grey fog, and he moaned.

"Perhaps something to wake you up," the doctor was searching through his needles again, and a dull jolt of fear leapt through him.

"What would be the point?" Tintin muttered. The doctor had already shot him with amphetamines earlier, an unpleasant experience that was somehow even worse than his current state.

Gaviel chuckled, cupping his fingers around Tintin's cheek, and stroked his face slowly. Tintin exhaled harshly. He didn't- couldn't- object in any way other than that, forcing himself to meet his gaze as he glared at Gaviel with all the hatred he deserved. The doctor laughed again, and turned off the light, leaving Tintin temporarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Before, there had been a secondary light in here, but the doctor must have turned it off, unnoticed in a moment of torment. Tintin exhaled loudly again, not quite sighing, and watched Gaviel with exhaustion. How long had they been in here, uninterrupted? He had no idea why the doctor wasn't tired, too- perhaps he was drawing some strength from Tintin's suffering; it seemed to fuel him so. Still, a sleepy part of his mind wondered if the drugs had meddled with his perception of time- he could have been here for hours on end, or only a few short minutes.

"How..." Tintin's tongue felt too large in his mouth, his throat dry and hoarse. "H-h..." He came to a shuddering halt, startled by a wetness on his cheeks, which he soon realised were tears. Gaviel brushed them away, distracted, and then reached for something out of sight with a clatter. The next thing he knew, a cool glass was pushed against his lips, and he drank unquestioningly, barely thinking of the cold hands on his face, closing his eyes as he slipped into troubled sleep.

**5**

Thomson crept back towards the living room, masking his anger as successfully as he muffled his footsteps. He realised, as he got to the door, that it was too quiet within- silent, in fact- and peeked through the opening. He was grateful that he had left the door ajar earlier, as it spared him from calamity.

Thompson, presumably from having drank the tea that Müller offered him, was laid out on the sofa, sound asleep. The doctor was standing at his desk, back turned to the door as his eyes searched the windows, evidently looking for Thomson. He contemplated sneaking in and bludgeoning Müller, but with the distance he would have to cross, it was untenable.

Movement. He ducked his head back behind the door, praying Müller hadn't seen him. Footsteps.

The whirr of a dialling telephone.

"Yes? Well, let me speak to him then," Müller sounded uptight, angry. "Gaviel? A change of plan. It seems you will have to dispose of the boy... No- I know what I said, but what... No. No, they'll never believe that..." His voice gave a sudden burst of panicked anger. "The detectives! They are here! Yes. Yes, I have one of them, but the other is- no... No, they are Scotland Yard. Exactly."

Thomson tried to formulate a plan as he eavesdropped.

"I can bring him, but what use would-? Yes... But his colleague will... Yes. I understand. Yes... But..."

Thomson frowned. If they were intending to move Thompson somewhere, it was likely the same place that Tintin was being kept. And if he could follow them...

Intentionally or not, Thompson had already made himself bait. Feeling a twinge of guilt, but well aware that were was nothing he could do to rescue his partner yet, he hurried back out of Müller's house, and found into a hiding spot at the back of the house. Assuming they didn't scour too hard for him, he should be able to settle down here until they tried to transport Thompson. Since returning back outside, night had finally fallen, and he was certain that the darkness would further mask him. As for Snowy, wherever he had got to, Thomson hoped that he had enough sense to wait there.

~

Tintin came round again, squirming slightly within the now-familiar restraints, and fixed his gaze on Gaviel. The man swam in an out of focus, and set a telephone back down on its stand as he turned to him, sharply.

"Müller has just discovered a friend of yours lurking around the estate," Gaviel informed him, a strange look on his face as he twisted something between his fingers. It looked dark grey, perhaps sharp, and glinted in the light. Another needle? But no... It looked larger than that.

"Friend...?" Tintin wondered if he meant Snowy.

"I do wish you hadn't brought the police into this."

"The police..." Tintin's mind seemed to be running slowly. "The Thompsons? They're-"

"You should have let them arrest you on the train," Gaviel interrupted. "It would have got you all out of the way." He paused. "Müller was kinder than he needed to be; he provided an easy exit for you all. I'm sure you wish you'd taken it."

Despite the effect that the drugs were having on him, Tintin felt a stab of irritation. "You're all talk, Gaviel." His voice came out cracked and hoarse, and he failed to vocalise his next thought. Why didn't Gaviel get on with it?

There was a low snarl, followed by rough hands on his waist, curiously bare. There was something else, too- the fizzy pinpricks of wounds reopening, and he groaned and struggled.

"All talk?" Gaviel spat, his hands clamping briefly on Tintin's waist. He released him when he gasped, and made a smug, satisfied sound in the back of his throat.

"What-?" Tintin spluttered, as he registered the cool air against his chest, and realised belatedly what Gaviel must be holding. He blinked rapidly, and his vision adjusted slightly, but the sight of the doctor standing over him with a bloodied knife only further confused him, as he didn't remember getting cut.

"Short term memory loss is a common side effect," Gaviel explained. "But it means it's working."

He felt sick, mouth searching for the right words. "What is?"

"*Treatment B.*"

Tintin strained his head in an attempt to examine himself; more alert than he had been before. Thinking of this, he thought of the sedatives Gaviel had used on him.

"Is that it? Those drugs?" Tintin asked, collapsing back against the headboard, panting heavily.

"No," Gaviel sighed. "Those were merely part of it. The treatment is merely a... Codename we use," he smirked, clearly enamoured with the process of being as cryptic as possible.

Tintin considered this. He tried to recall the phonecall he had overheard Müller making, and stares at Gaviel with fresh understanding.

"A codename for torturing someone into insanity?" Tintin asked, shifting his arms unconformably.

Gaviel nodded, curtly. "Some may consider it an inelegant solution. But if you were found to have gone mad, we could continue to take care of you, here, at Rosewood."

Tintin shook his head. "Is anyone in here a genuine patient?"

Gaviel laughed. "Always the same questions. We've had this conversation three times already," he sighed, running his hand through Tintin's hair.

He flinched instinctively. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Gaviel murmured.

He didn't know, but he didn't want to let on.

"How long have you been..." Tintin didn't want to say it. "... Questioning me?"

Gaviel snorted. "Distancing. It's why you forget. You want to believe it's not happening to you, so you pretend it isn't."

Tintin tensed.

"But how long?" His sense of time had gone, and he fretted- that could mean days. If it was, he must have worryingly large gaps in his memory, and the Treatment must be getting to him fast.

Gaviel ignored his question.

"Some colleagues of mine are developing a serum, which would achieve the same effects instantly. I have copies of their prototype, of course, but I was avoiding using it."

Tintin glanced down, only to see that the doctor's tricky fingers had filled another syringe with deep green liquid.

"But to have a test subject like you..." His eyes gleamed, "That really changes things."

Hands approached, the needle point driven unstoppably towards him, and he struggled, to no avail. 

"What do you say, Tintin? One last push?"

A sharp stab.

He screamed.

**6**

Snowy was restless, but Thomson held him still, stroking his hands softly through the dog's soft fur as their car raced onwards.

He had heard Müller mention Rosewood as they loaded Thompson into the back of the van, and, rather than following on foot, he had made his way back up the lane until he found a phone box. From there, he had called for backup, which came in the form of the local police. They had sent three cars and a van, seemingly the extent of their force in this otherwise quiet area of countryside. Snowy must have seen him leaving Müller's estate, and has followed, growling impatiently as he attempted to steer Thomson in the direction that Müller's van had gone- and, presumably, where another van, with Tintin as hostage had gone, hours before. When he met up with the police, they agreed to leave one car out of sight down the lane, while two men kept watch on the estate- although it was unlikely that Müller would return. Then, the rest had set off, in hot pursuit, only about 7 officers in all. Thomson hoped they weren't spread too thin.

  Although they made haste in the vehicle, Tintin's loyal companion was stressed at their slow progress.

"Calm down," he whispered, patting Snowy awkwardly. He had never been good with canines, and although Snowy was soft, familiar, his jumpiness did little to soothe Thomson's own nerves. He exhaled shakily.

The policeman who was driving the car cast him a sympathetic glance.

"We'd been hearing nasty rumours about Rosewood," he said hesitantly, perhaps thinking of a superior who had forbade this information.

Thomson raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't investigate it sooner?"

"I..." The man blanched. "You'll have to ask my commanding officer about that, sir."

He imagined the look on Thompson's face if he were here; silently chastising him for snapping. He relented, supposed it wasn't fair to take his nerves out on the policeman, and apologised gruffly.

"It's the worry, is all," he said, his fingers tangling into Snowy's fur anxiously. Fields flashed past, wide absences of green grass that stretched out as far as the eye could see, none of it fast enough for his liking.

  He hadn't realised he'd stayed up all night until the dawn came, streaks of gold that chased away the dark. Although the car jolted terribly on these old lanes, the opportunity to be seated was making him realise how exhausted he was. Although he was grateful for the opportunity to get some rest, it would inevitably catch up with him soon enough. For now, he was running on adrenaline, and a constant, nagging worry.

  The driver caught sight of him in the mirror. "I'm sure they're fine, sir- your colleagues," he added hastily, glancing at him in the rear view mirror.

  "Friends," Thomson corrected quietly. Family, really. Tintin always had been a surrogate son to he and Thompson. What would he do, should any harm come to either of them?

  He flattened Snowy's ears anxiously, and the dog whined softly, detecting his fear. 

  As the car sped over the crest of the hill, what looked like a run-down farmhouse came into view. He didn't pay it much heed, at first assuming it must be just another abandoned blip on the landscape, but as the car began to slow, he straightened up in concern.

  "Why are we stopping?"

  "This is it, sir," the driver replied "Rosewood."

  It didn't look like much; unlike the tall enclosure of Müller's mansion, but he supposed that was the point. No wonder the police had taken so long to investigate within; this abandoned facade was an elegant turn-away. Even Thomson had been taken in by it. He cursed. Perhaps he was not so smart after all.

  He threw the car door open, and Snowy leapt out ahead, nose to the ground instantly as he tried to locate Tintin. Behind them, the second police car drew to a halt, followed by the van. A cold anger filled his heart. He was determined to fill that van with anyone even remotely complicit in the kidnappings. Was Thompson even being kept here? It seemed unlikely, but for Tintin's sake, he couldn't afford to waste time. Head spinning, he turned back to look at the commanding officer who was in attendance.

  "We split up, search the place, and make as many arrests as we can," he said, to which the officer nodded. "Make sure you have men covering all exits. I don't want anyone connected to Müller to escape. If we have to arrest the whole lot to be sure, then that's what we'll do."

  The officer frowned. "There could be upwards of twenty workers inside, sir. I'm not sure we have the resources to-"

  "Then radio for more," he snapped, and turned back to the building.

  A hand-painted sign on the lawn read 'Rosewood', and, underneath that, a second, worn line, read what must have once said 'mental hospital'.

  He followed Snowy past the empty barn. The estate expanded beyond this one building, and he spotted a previously unseen farmhouse just out of view behind the barn, with the lights on. There were shouts behind him as the policemen began to organise, but he hurried forwards without much thought of himself. He was sprinting towards the house with such eagerness that he thought his lungs might burst- not least because Snowy was intent on overtaking him. In one swift motion, he scooped the dog into his arms, which resulted in a whine of protest. He'd be damned if he was going to put the dog in danger too.

  Keeping a firm grip on the squirming animal, he waited until the leader of the police support caught up with them, and made sure to speak first so he wasn't interrupted.

  "Take him," he said, handing Snowy to the surprised-looking officer, who cradled the dog unquestioningly. "Don't let them hurt him too," he added, although, with his thoughts split between Tintin and Thompson, he couldn't quite tell which of them he was fixated on.

  The policeman took a moment to compose himself, then nodded. "Of course," he said. "I'll cover this exit; won't let anyone get away," he gave Thomson a nod as the dog squirmed in his grasp.

  Thomson fixed his eyes on the doorway.

  "Let's go," he set his jaw, and started forwards.

**7**

  He had passed out. Gaviel had said something about... Tradition. He couldn't remember. The memory was slipping away, even though it had just happened. Was this madness? He couldn't be sure. The doctor had mentioned a prototype, perhaps the serum was incomplete; perhaps he had been spared.

  Maybe that was what Gaviel had been saying. No...

  Was saying. He opened his eyes blearily, and tried to focus on the doctor's lips, as the words weren't quite reaching his ears.

  "... If the serum won't work, the pain will," he whispered, holding up a bloodied knife. Tradition. Gaviel's tradition. It made sense; he had been driving patients to insanity for years without the use of a serum.

  He closed his eyes again. How long would it take him to go mad?

  "Something to wake you up again, perhaps," Gaviel repeated, almost sounding irritated. He was preparing some sort of needle again, and Tintin forced himself to stare him down, putting every ounce of his energy into proving he was awake, because he might die if he was forced to endure yet another shock of amphetamines.

  "Don't," he croaked. "Please."

  Gaviel laughed, a laugh that was cut short by whatever happened next. A door latch, repeatedly struck by the same blows, but they were too light, easy and ineffective. Gaviel smirked, eyes flitting between Tintin and the door.

  "We have a little time," he said, his hands moving to undo the clasps and buckles that held him in place. Within moments, though it seemed hardly possible, Tintin was freed. His legs hit the ground first, and folded underneath him, arms doomed to follow until the doctor grabbed him, by the hair, scalp screaming as he was dragged to his feet. Upright, forced into a standing position, he struggled against the man, but soon ceased.

  He crumpled against him, weak on shaking legs, and the sound of his whimpers seemed to momentarily silence whoever was outside.

  "Open this door!" The voice said, and a loud clang reverberated again.

  Gaviel tutted. "Here's how it's going to work," he pushed Tintin forwards as he made for the reinforced metal. He allowed him to slip from his grasp, where he hit the floor, again. He cried out, and man on the other side of the door halted.

  "Tintin?"

  Thomson's voice.

  "I-" he called out, and Gaviel covered his mouth with a hand, clicking the safety off his revolver as he placed it against Tintin's temple.

  "I will shoot him if you enter this room," he said.

  "You will not," Thomson growled.

"I will. The fact of the matter is, I was paid to kill the boy. You're only finishing the job."

  Tintin shifted slightly, and kept his gaze fixed on the doorway.

  "Then why haven't you?" Thompson asked. "You're bluffing."

  Gaviel uncovered Tintin's mouth, hissing at him violently.

  "Go on, Tintin. Tell him I'm not bluffing."

  "Thomson," Tintin said shakily. "He has a gun."

  There was a pause.

  "What do you want?"

  Gaviel dragged Tintin to his feet again, and he sucked air in through his teeth, clinging to the wall desperately to keep from falling.

  "When I open this door, you will let us pass. If you try to stop me, I'll shoot him," Gaviel said plainly.

~

  Thomson froze, for Tintin's sake, and narrowed his eyes at the figure in white.

  "Let him go," he demanded plainly. "The building is surrounded; your colleagues have been arrested. There is no reason-"

  "There is every reason," the doctor snapped, pushing the barrel closer against Tintin's temple.

  Although he was near-unconscious, Gaviel had gravely underestimated Tintin. He thrust the gun out of the way and flailed against him, a motion that was more of a faint than it was a tackle, but nevertheless succeeded in causing the both of them to fall over. Gaviel cried out as his gun went clattering to the floor, and Tintin's limp body pinned him down long enough for Thomson to kick it out of reach. Tintin gave a harsh whimper of pain as Gaviel pushed him off, and the doctor made a break for the door. Neither of them attempted to stop him leave.

  "The police will catch him," Thomson reassured the boy, turning his attention to his injuries. There was no response.

  He rolled the boy onto his back gently, and was alarmed to see the deep gashes that had been cut into his chest. Gingerly, he laid his own coat over Tintin, lifting the boy in his arms as gently as he could. He groaned slightly, but was otherwise despondent, eyes shut tight; his last spasm of energy spent on detaining Gaviel.

  "Hold on,  Tintin," he murmured, carrying him out of the room.

**8**

  Tintin was alarmed to wake up in a hospital, and his hands searched instantly for hidden restraints, but none were there. He raised his arms weakly, weighed down by the force of gravity alone, and exhaled heavily with the effort. There was a snore beside him, but where he had been expecting to see Thomson, he instead saw a curled up ball of white fur, dozing comfortably in the chair. He smiled weakly, and reached his arm out to the dog.

  "Snowy," he whispered, as his hand explored familiar white curls. He settled back down on the bed, reassured as he slipped back out of consciousness.

~

  "You're a very lucky young man."

  Tintin hoped this wasn't going to become a common saying among the nurses he met, especially as he didn't feel particularly lucky.

  "Oh?" He said, humouring her. The bullet wound from under a week ago hadn't fully healed yet, and he had newer, fresher cuts, that would undoubtedly scar.

  She gave him a sympathetic look, and remarked "Things could always be worse," as if she could read his mind.

  "The Thompsons..." Tintin said softly. His eyes scanned the room. "Where are the detectives?"

  "The policeman who brought you in? Why, he's in another ward, down the hall. That was not-" she added, sharply, "An invitation for you to get up."

  Tintin lay back on the bed. He didn't have the strength anyway.

  Her eyes softened. "I'll let him know where you are." She left the room.

  Him. Tintin closed his eyes. He was exhausted, but first, he had to know.

  Footsteps, frantic, the door burst open.

  "You're awake," Thomson said, relieved.

  Thomson got closer to the bed, and outed a disgruntled Snowy from the chair. He chuckled, and lifted the dog onto his lap in one swift motion. After a moment, he settled down.

 

  "You two get along now," he observed sleepily.

  "I suppose so," Thomson whispered, as he began to stroke the dog's fur slowly.

  "I'm not going mad, am I?" Tintin whispered back, and Thomson laughed.

  "I don't think so."

  "No, I mean..." He thought of the madness poison. "I..."

  Perhaps the poison was incomplete. Perhaps he would get answers later. Perhaps he should sleep. He seemed to remember something, and gestured with his hand.

  "My pocket," he whispered, before passing out.

It was one long phone call to Scotland yard.

  "- yes. Tintin worked it out," Thomson said, bent over the phone with a slip of paper in hand. "OK-" He read out the coordinates again.

  "We'll send someone," the voice on the other end of the line said, "Thank you."

  "These people are dangerous. Be prepared," he warned.

~

***Appendix***

  Thompson was found the next day, unharmed, but shaken, in a tower in the castle of The Black Island. Thomson was so relieved that he didn't even hide his joy at their reunion, much to Thompson's surprise. Their contacts at Scotland Yard did their work well, happy to be working on home turf, and ended Müller's smuggling operation. As for Rosewood, it was closed down, although there was no sign of Gaviel. It was thought he had fled to India, taking the secrets of the madness-prototype with him.

  Tintin never spoke much about his ordeal- in fact, it was the one misadventure he found himself unable to report on, instead embellishing his write-up with anecdotes from officers who had gone to The Island, one of whom had spent time deep undercover in a kilt, and another who claimed to have crashed his plane into a bramble patch. It was fantastical enough to keep his readers distracted, and helped him forget the horrors a little. 

After a while, it faded, and just became a story.

**Author's Note:**

> End notes: it always bothered me that The Black Island comic alluded to a deeper conspiracy in the heart of England that was never explored. It seems to me that Tintin would have wanted to end the exploitation of these inmates, and I thought tying it to The Blue Lotus was a good idea.


End file.
